


Resurrected

by Breath4Soul



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: #sherlocklives, Angst, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Getting happier, Healing, John Saves The Day, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, John Watson Saves Sherlock Holmes, Joining forces, Kissing, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Past Character Death, Sad, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Sherlock is in a dark place, Sherlock would die for John, Solidarity, Suicidal Thoughts, dark story, i saw a prompt, introspective, sorry for the feels, this just sort of happened
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-07
Updated: 2017-05-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:53:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7118329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul/pseuds/Breath4Soul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <b>Every good man knows there is a proper time and a place to die. John had tried his danmdest to make Sherlock a <i>good man.</i></b>
</p><p> </p><p>  <b>Then again, sometimes all it takes is something to live for.</b></p><blockquote>
  <p>He had been resurrected twice now, and that is twice more than any one man deserves. He knows he can't come back a third time.</p>
  <p>He came back from the fall because of John. He came back from being shot and dying on the operating table because of John. Yet all he does with each resurrection is destroy John a little more.</p>
</blockquote>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Hole

It's not that one _can't_ come back from the dead. That part is remarkably easy actually. It is that no one _wants to._ Or at least that's Sherlock’s theory as he stands on the pavement outside a third rate diner pinching his bleeding nose and straining to see some glimmer of that warmth that once so easily used to radiate off of his former companion, John Watson. 

It’s not that being dead was blissful or peaceful, it was, in Sherlock’s case anyways, a living hell. His own self-inflicted purgatory. Yet living is far too painful once you've been dead. Coming back to life can only be an excruciating reminder of your own insignificance. 

Life moves on after all. 

_People_ move on. 

The hole you spent years carving out by merely existing is easily filled in your absence. Trying to re-insert yourself means cutting a new space; cutting away the parts that healed on those you care for to try to graft yourself back in. Rebirth is ugly, messy and more injurious to the ones you hold so dear from your previous existence.

Dying is painful, but living in the aftermath is so much worse. Better to _stay dead_ then. 


	2. A Vicious Motivator

Sometimes resurrection is transactional, Sherlock thinks as the helicopter blades whir and he drops to his knees in front of Magnusson’s corpse. The smell of gunpowder being swept away by the scent of the garden the helicopter hovers over. He closes his eyes and remembers John standing by his grave, head bowed, a choked sob shaking his strong frame. 

He had been resurrected twice now, and that is twice more than any one man deserves. He knows he can't come back a third time. 

He came back from the fall because of John. He came back from being shot and dying on the operating table because of John. Yet all he does with each resurrection is destroy John a little more.

He can't do it again. He can't see John suffer any more. He can't keep shattering him, letting him put himself back together, then slicing him open again. It is cruel and inhuman.

Sherlock can't bring himself to be bitter about this moment. Not about Moriarty or Mary or Magnusson or Mycroft, all whom can be said to have forced his hand. Perhaps if he could be just a little bit bitter he could stay his own hand. _Bitterness is a paralytic,_ after all.

No, he knows he has only himself to blame. It is his love for John Watson that has sent him to his grave time and again. It is his love for John that has brought him back. And Love is nothing if not _a vicious motivator._

He clasps John's hand, the flesh of his palm warm against his own which is cold and trembling ever so slightly. If John sees it, feels it, he doesn't call him on it. He'd like to think the former soldier understands. Every good man knows there is a proper time and a place to die. John had tried his danmdest to make Sherlock a _good man._

The drugs are already racing through his system, making it hard to school his expression and hold back his tears... But he does... for John. One last gift to John. An apology, really, for the hell he has put him through. He has caused so much pain, inflicted so much harm on this good man, he can at least make this death quick and bloodless.

He is going to die now. And this time, for John Watson, he's going to make sure he _stays dead._

[-Breath4Soul](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Breath4Soul)


	3. To Follow

Sherlock feels the icy fingers of death still caressing his throat as he stands in the middle of the sitting room of 221B. Thoughts swirl around him in a swarm of angry ravens; a piercing assault from six sides. 

He is a ghost, barely there. Life still clings to him but he feels how fluid it all is, how it wants to slip away. A slow dance, that can only end in death’s fatal kiss.

He had tried to keep moving as he left the plane, but John has followed; always follows. Now he can only stand there on unsteady legs and face it. Face what he has done, once again. The damage he has rained down upon the one man he cares most for in the world. The price for escaping death's clutch is always wrought out on the soul of John Watson.

They are alone. Everyone else has fallen away, as they always do. 

The drugs burn through him and all of him is on fire. His thoughts are liquid, molten lava, searing in their slow, relentless destruction. He is ash and dirt; just dust on the tongue. John flickers into another version of himself, another time; _the frigid droplets from the waterfall clinging to him, pistol clutched in steady hand._

Sherlock tries to turn away but John’s hand roughly grabs him by the upper arm, spins him around to look into those deep blue eyes. The rage is flashing across the ex-soldiers face, radiating in every muscle of his hard stance; sharp in his words and blazing eyes. Fists clench and unclench in time with Sherlock's heartbeat.

He's demanding answers but Sherlock has none. 

Fingers in flesh. That stare that sees him broken but makes him whole. Words are spilling from Sherlock's lips and he can't hold onto them, they slip from his mouth as insistently as the breath he can't cease. He has been made weak and defenseless by the ravaging effect of the drugs. Dark, ugly truths are sliding out into the light. 

He is trying to distance himself from John, to scoff and snarl, but it is the posturing of a cornered, wounded animal. John won't let go. He can feel the hot tears burning their damning path down too-thin flesh of cheeks stretched over frail bones. He is transparent and there is nowhere to hide. John is looking through him; into him.

His back is against the wall. John is an immovable force barring the front of him. He tries to close his eyes to escape this moment, and his body is swaying, floating, anchored only by John's firm grip on his arm. Another hand curls into the flesh of his other arm, a chest with a heart that is beating too fast is against his own. Breath rises and falls. Then lips are pressing to his own from the darkness and he is shattering into a million pieces. Light reflects off sharp points and glints beautifully on the dangerous edges of nearly transparent blades. 

He is dreaming. Perhaps slipping back into the sweet illusion on the edge of death’s hold. It is the only thing to explain firm lips gliding insistently against his own, igniting the chemicals coursing through his veins and making everything pulse. He wants to reach out and touch John, make him real, but he is too broken. He slips into the warm swath of that false reality. A dream where John holds him together while his lips pull him apart.

The kiss deepens and John’s tongue is slipping in and tasting him; passionate and certain. Sherlock has never experienced this before and he knows his mind has no references to fabricate such an illusion. Breath catches in his chest and he pulls away, gazing into John's eyes. It is John but different. Harder and softer; somehow truer. As if all this time he has only been a shadow of his true self and is now revealed.

“This is… _dangerous._ ” His voice is small; cannot possibly contain the immensity of the consequences. The risk of attempting to bring something beautiful and fragile into a world that already wants to destroy them. The layers of fear tamper down the bright blaze of his desire as he tries to pull himself in and patch together the fragments. 

John surges forward and then his lips are pulling Sherlock in, drinking deeply. Sherlock is collapsing in on himself. John is smiling into his lips. Steady, sure hands are slipping up over thin shoulder blades pushing heavy wool off until it pools on the floor. A strong arm slips around his thin waist and pulls their bodies together firmly. 

“Always.” It could be an acknowledgment, but it is a promise turned accusation. Sherlock feels sick. Another instance when promises he made to John were beyond his keeping. He wants to slip away to oblivion. His eyes slide closed and he tries to focus in on the press of John against his own frail shell, to bleed some of that strength off him into his own blood. 

“You said... _Always_.” Hot breath bleeds through the fabric of his shoulder. His chin is nudged aside and his head tilts back. John's lips are pressed like a blade to his throat. It's not a threat but Sherlock has never felt more vulnerable. Words vibrate against the skin over his pulse point where jaw meets the column of his neck. “Many lies were spoken and mistakes were made that day... but…” A sigh, then a tightening of that hold. “None of them were yours.” Sherlock swallows, feeling those lips press in, taking in the rhythm of his pulse. 

“I never intended-” John's lips are on his again, swallowing his words. It seems impossible something so sensual and warm can also be steel and fire; cauterizing all those festering wounds from the past six years, but his kiss does. It leaves no room for doubts or misdirecting words. 

Sherlock is left gasping for breath, clinging to John with his body trembling. John is looking into his eyes and behind the blues bursting with green there is a kaleidoscope of emotions twisting and reforming constantly; anger, passion, love, fear, pain, desire, bravery, possessiveness, hope, loyalty.

“Was it the truth?’" John demands in a voice that is piercing in its quiet intensity. Nothing that came before seems quite so dangerous as this moment, balancing between losing John forever and letting John accept the dangerous disadvantage of loving him back. Sherlock feels the weight of it on his exhausted soul. The shattering of his brittle defenses is complete.

He can only swallow and nod, his eyes begging John not to take that inevitable plunge, following him over the edge again. 

John’s expression fixes with determination and tenderness, a depth of affection and burning passion that can only be catagorized as _love_. He pulls him in tightly and his lips find Sherlock's ear. He just hovers there a moment, letting Sherlock hear and feel his breath. The silence speaks volumes, the beginning of a deeper joining, John's tempo matching Sherlock's then gently leading him to something more stable. Sherlock relaxes, feeling a shift in the universe as John joins him in the darkness and the ex-soldier's strength infuses him.

“You want to do something for me, Sherlock...” John's tongue sweeps in, hot and wet. It is the most oddly electrifying sensation Sherlock has ever known and his whole body goes weak, collapsing into John with a bone shattering moan; folding over him as if he may be able to envelop or consume him entirely as a white blood cell does with an invading organism. 

“Live… for _this_ … for _us_ … _live,_ Sherlock.” John's hands are steady as he takes Sherlock by the hand and pulls him towards the bedroom. 

This time, Sherlock follows John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't intend to continue this story, but something of it called me to revisit it now. I am on vacation in another country and I guess it got me thinking about death and rebirth.
> 
> If you enjoy it so far leave a comment or kudo.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a prompt and this just sort of happened.  
> Sorry for all the dark feels.  
> Once you stop crying please feel free to leave me comments. I appreciate Kudos too.


End file.
